


Haunted by a Ghost

by killua (david_strider)



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Heavy Angst, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M, North Yankton, Past Infidelity, Past Relationship(s), Repressed Memories, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 12:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14260614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/david_strider/pseuds/killua
Summary: Michael de Santa's been haunted by the ghosts of his past- it just so happens that one of them, Trevor Philips, is still alive. While reflecting on his past life in North Yankton, he's forced to recognize that things with Amanda have been broken for far longer than he'd ever imagined.





	1. Subtlety

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of a previous drabble of mine, "The Ghost of North Yankton." I wanted to reflect on the idea of Michael and Trevor having an affair before everything went to hell, and Amanda knows about it. When Trevor comes back and Michael seems indifferent, Amanda has to consider what her marriage with Michael is worth.

‘Subtle’ was not a word that Michael Townley would use to describe his best friend, Trevor Philips. From the moment Michael met Trevor, he’d known _that_ would be the last word he’d use when referencing the rugged male. In the very moment the duo had met, Trevor shot a flare gun into a man’s eye—melting flesh burning in a mixture of flames and cartilage, a repugnant smell permeating the air. Yeah, Michael never even thought of _subtlety_ being in the opposing male’s nature.

 

And yet, that’s exactly what Trevor was when it came to how he felt. _Subtle_.

 

It had started with a particular incident that took place one day after robbing a small store—they managed to swipe $2,000 off of a poor sap off the very outskirts of North Yankton about 30 miles south. Both men had been in their late twenties; and yet, each time Michael got any sort of score, he felt like the same teenager on the football field scoring a touchdown. He was sixteen again, hair cropped short with a stocky, muscular build—and he was the star quarterback, sprinting with all his might in his attempt to get a run-in. _He scores_! Trevor gave a hearty laugh at the irresponsibility and havoc the two men had caused—speeding at about 95 down the iced pavement leading back home.

 

“Fuckin’ A, that was perfect T!” Michael grinned, counting the cash in the front seat of the car. “We keep at these small stores, we’ll finally get somethin’ big.” The young male took a swig of his beer before handing it over to the opposing male, “Here, take a fuckin’ drink—you deserve it.” It hadn’t been the first time he’d shared a drink with Trevor, but by the way the other male looked at it, he’d wondered if his saliva had somehow tainted it.

 

Regardless, Trevor smirked before taking a drink of the shared bottle, eyeing his best friend. “Don’t mind if I do, Mikey. Don’t mind if I fuckin’ do.”

 

____________

 

After their folly, Trevor pulled up near Michael’s house, dropping him off near dinner time as usual. Trevor was getting used to picking up and dropping off Michael most days—they would attend to business, then kick back and watch the sensational sunset together before heading inside to his small home to share a few beers together until slumber took over them. Too many nights had Trevor fallen asleep on Michael’s couch. Too many nights, Trevor refused to tell Michael that it was because he had no bed to return to at ‘home.’

 

 This night, however, felt a little different—there was something… Heartwarming, about being with Trevor. The guy was an absolute psychopath, and _yet_ , there was something about him that lingered of _home_ —a presence that Michael had not felt since he was a child and his mother would make homemade cookies for Santa Clause—back when he still believed in that bullshit, anyway.

 

Michael was about to get out of the car when Trevor finally spoke. He had been silent that day, and Michael hadn’t quite been sure why—he figured he was just jittery from stabbing the guy in the store and then drinking while driving, but as his best friend spoke, he recognized that it was something _more_ than just _that_.

 

“Hey, Mike—” Trevor murmured, and the opposing male turned to face him, a look of uncertainty on his face. They were close— _too_ close— _fuckin’ debatably_ close. “Look, I uh…” He fumbled slightly, biting his lip like he’d meant to say something else but couldn’t get it out. “You did real good today, yeah?” His eyes spoke an earnestness that his words _couldn’t_. Immediately, Michael felt like the front seats of the car was far too small for the both of them as he recognized that fuck, he _hadn’t_ been mistaken, Trevor was definitely looking at his lips and, and—

 

“Daddy! Uncle T!” A faint familiar voice called from the front steps. Out came little Tracey clumsily, in boots far too large for her and one of Trevor’s spare parkas that he’d left over at Michael’s house, tripping in the snow as she ran out to the car where the two men resided. Trevor was the first to get out of the car, getting down on one knee before lifting up the young girl with one arm.

 

“Fuckin’ little Tracey! There’s my girl!” Trevor called, watching as the adorable young girl giggled because ‘Uncle T said a bad word.’

 

“Hey, Trevor—” Amanda called, stepping outside. Her hair had been exceptionally long and straight, and she had the skin of a goddess—she was literal epitome of beauty in North Yankton; the ‘town’s talk’ if you will. “Language.” She spoke, raising her eyebrows.

 

“Ah, hey Amanda,” Trevor remarked, perhaps a little more irritably than necessary.

 

“Hi honey,” Michael responded before giving her a quick peck on the lips.

 

“Ewwww,” Trevor remarked obnoxiously before looking at Tracey, who was also claiming “Ewww!” at the sight of her own parents kissing. “ _Jesus_ get a room you two!”

 

Amanda, despite being irked by Trevor’s constant inhospitality, kept a light smile on her face, that could have easily been mistaken as a grimace. Regardless, Trevor was Michael’s friend—his _best_ friend—so she remained calm and composed despite her distaste for the other man.

 

“Hey, T,” Michael called as Trevor let down Tracey, allowing her to run back over to her parents. “Do you wanna come in? Have a couple’a beers? Celebrate today’s victory?” He asked, a grin on his face.

 

Trevor wanted nothing more than to say _hell yes_ , but something stopped him abruptly. The juxtaposition felt all too real in that very moment—two men, the best of friends, standing outside in the snow at dusk—one single and quite obviously ostracized from the outside world, and the other at the brink of starting a family. Married, with a beautiful daughter. Of fucking course, Michael already had everything—he had a place to sleep, a wife to sleep next to, and his daughter to tuck into bed at night. Although his house was shitty, small, and unkempt, it was a house—compared to the in-and-outs of homelessness that Trevor had faced—nights of sleeping in the car, crashing at Michael’s, and living in motel rooms praying that drugs and alcohol would save the excruciation. When they were together, they were the same—two boys who never grew out of being young—but at night, Michael could go home—and Trevor? He grasped at the invisible strands of love tethering him to the fellow male—but never quite getting close _enough_.

 

“Me? Oh, no, I’m good, I got business to take care of—” Trevor lied, blatantly.

 

“Oh yeah? What _business_ , huh?” Michael inquired, a smug look on his face that claimed, ‘I know you’ve got nothin’ better to do.’

 

“ _Business_ that involves takin’ care of this money we got, shithead!” He proclaimed, much to the continued distaste to Amanda who couldn’t stand when either men swore in front of Tracey.

 

“Alright,” Amanda proclaimed in an attempt to get Michael inside, “We should probably put Trace to bed anyway. Say goodnight to Uncle T, sweetheart,” A slightly abrasive tone was present in her voice—letting Michael know it was time to _go_.

 

As Amanda carried darling Tracey inside, Michael remained out a little too long as both he and Trevor looked at one another, a strange concoction of feelings and borderline _desire_ reminiscing about them. Once again, Trevor was far too fucking _subtle_. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Trevor?” Michael called, peering from the door.

 

Trevor smiled.

 

“You bet.”


	2. A Fair Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda finally comes clean about why she loathes Trevor Philips- and Michael isn't expecting her answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amanda had found out about the affair just weeks before the bank robbery gone wrong, and yet she never approached Michael about it.
> 
> Michael has relatively suppressed those memories- which is why he seems so uncertain.

Another day, another bottle of whiskey. At this point in his life, whiskey was quite possibly the _only_ thing that actually served Michael De Santa in the way he needed—a cold, bittersweet, pungent drink to drown himself in as he reminisced the past—sitting on the edge of his bed. Perhaps he never really moved on, he recognized earlier that day, when his long lost ‘friend’ Trevor Philips appeared in his kitchen. Upon viewing him, Michael went white as a ghost—in fear of… Hell—in fear of _what_?

 

Truthfully, he didn’t know what he _actually_ feared at the thought of Trevor. Of course, he had internalized his fear that he might come murder him and then consume him in some cannibalistic fury. Or, more realistically, maybe his true fear lied within the memories that plagued him— _dismantled_ him—to the point of unreality. Trevor was a psychopath, but when they were young, he was _always_ good to Michael’s family. Hell, the old man couldn’t recall how many times the two of them would kick back on the couch with a couple of beers; five-year-old Tracey sitting on ‘Uncle T’s’ lap while Michael cussed at his shitty box television that _never_ seemed to have reception. Or even the many times that Trevor would take her out to play in the snow while Michael stared out the window—a bittersweet memory. Trevor would do anything for those kids, and as much as he couldn’t stand Amanda, he would’ve taken the shirt of his back for the Townley family.

 

Perhaps the true fear was in recognition that Trevor was no longer the man he once was in North Yankton—no, he was something _far worse_ —as if that was even possible. Seeing him in the kitchen earlier that day brought everything into a perspective _too_ realistic, too uncomfortable to fathom. The Trevor Philips he knew was destructive and would raise hell at the sight of whatever he wished, but he was also kind and tender when he wanted to be. And yet, the Trevor Philips that stood in his kitchen was anything _but_ tender. The darkness in his eyes told a story of someone who had been fucked over one too many times—too many times by ‘ _yours truly_.’ The guilt was gnawing at his insides and plucking at his thoughts.

 

Trevor was no longer in his prime, that was for sure. The man Michael knew when he was younger was thin as bones—lanky and tall, with a couple tattoos. His hair, a mullet, and his face freshly shaven like a young boy— _always_ a beer in hand. The man that stood in front of him was—was… A fucking _mess_ , to say the least. His hair stuck out every direction, covered in grotesque tattoos, blood and grime under his nails, random scratches littering his body, and the smell—good God—you could _smell_ him from a mile away. On his upper arm, track marks fell in random lines down in miscellaneous patterns—what kind of fucking drugs was this guy on now, anyway?  

 

Michael sat on the edge of the bed, collecting his thoughts—trying not to remind himself of the events from the past day. He heard his phone vibrate on the night stand—a notification from ‘Trevor’ popping up. “Good fuckin’ grief,” he murmured, eyes scanning over a text that read, _“Good 2 see u again, u miserable fuck!!!”_ Michael immediately ignored the text, placing his head in his hands. What in God’s name did he do to deserve Trevor fucking Philips back in his life? Was this God’s way of punishing him? Although he’d done a lot of things, resurrecting Trevor in his life was the epitome of hell. _“What, u too good 2 even answer now?”_ Another text ignored. Michael needed sleep.

 

Peeling back the covers, he was just about to get into bed when Amanda came in—refusing to even look at her husband. Nowadays, that had been pretty common, but it still hurt. It was easy to remember the old days when he was young and in love, back when Amanda was strikingly beautiful, and he was a real charmer. As lovely as his wife was now, she just looked… _Sad_ , to say the least. And for himself? God only knows what he looked like after years of post-traumatic stress, alcoholism, and pure, unadulterated, self-loathing. “Hey, Manda.” He stated. As much as he hoped for a reply, he knew that he probably wouldn’t receive one—as per usual.

 

“Hey,” Amanda commented, her voice low and lacking energy. She stood near her vanity mirror brushing her straightened hair, a silk robe lightly covering her body. Although the response surprised Michael, it was as if she hadn’t spoken at all. It was only now that he could really see how the years had begun wearing down on her. The dark circles under her eyes were far more prominent than he’d ever recognized, and her body was aging slightly. Her stripping days were far over, he recalled, looking at the traces of cellulite and stretch marks on her body. Her eyes, once a brilliant blue, only appeared grey and dull in the eyes of her husband.

 

“You okay?” Michael asked, quite obviously knowing the answer.  Of course, she wouldn’t be honest with him—regardless, he felt the needed to ask. Although she ignored his question, her eyes briefly met with his in the mirror before sighing—making her way to bed. As always, she faced in the opposite direction of him—signaling that she was going to bed, and more specifically, that she wasn’t going to talk about whatever was bothering her. However, as Michael reached over to turn off the light on his nightstand, a question from his wife interrupted his action.

 

“Michael?” Amanda asked, turning her head just enough for him to hear her words.

 

Michael pauses. There’s a discomfort in her voice that only makes him feel further isolated. It’s evident they’ve both been living in two different lives for some time now—and the heightened sigh of his name is a reminder of it. “Yeah?” The elder male responds, at this point almost afraid to hear her question.

 

Amanda lets out another sigh. “What… What are you going to do—now that Trevor’s back?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know—” Michael muttered. “I ain’t got no fuckin’ clue what to do. I mean, did you fuckin’ see the guy today? He was absolutely… He was…” Michael fumbled for the words, subtly mouthing a falsified set of words that didn’t come to him.

 

“That’s not what I mean, Michael,” She retaliated, a look of concern but also irritation on her face. “When’s it all going to start again, huh?” He peered at her, hands resting on his stomach. _Damn, he felt old._ “The violence, the running—when’s it all going to _stop_?”

 

The older man put his hands up, shushing his wife—“Nah, nah—Manda, you’ve got it all wrong, babe—nothin’ll happen, I mean, fuck, have you _seen_ the guy? He’s probably high off his ass, and—”

 

She cut him off again, this time raising his voice. “Don’t fucking tell that nothing will happen, Michael!” He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that his wife was angry, yet he still raised his eyebrows towards her. “You _promised_ me, Michael Townley! You _promised_ me that he wouldn’t be back, and he’s here! That _monster_ , that _fucker_ , is back in our lives to ruin what’s left of us!” At this point, she was full on screaming—at some point, Michael had gotten up in attempts to console her, but he could only stare in disbelief as she kept her distance. _She wouldn’t even let him touch her anymore_. Where things really _that_ damaged?

 

“Honey, you’ve got it wrong—look, Amanda, Trevor’s just, y’know, _Trevor_ , he wasn’t _always_ that bad—” Once again, Michael was abruptly cut off. This time, he was more alarmed by the fact she was laughing. She was so furious, she could no longer cry—she could only laugh at the purely unfair situation she was placed in.

 

“… All of these fucking years, Michael!” She laughed, almost to tears, which further frightened her husband. Suddenly, her laughter stopped—and the sincerity in her eyes welled up tears that spoke a truth that Michael knew, but would continually deny. “I should have left you _that_ _day_.” She paused. “That fucking day.” Amanda sat on the bed with admitted defeat. “I really should have left you that day, all those years ago.” She repeated.

 

Michael looked the sorry state of his wife, irritated by her subtly but also confused by which particular day she was referring to. Sure, Michael had cheated on her with countless women—most of them on a drunken whimsy—but which one set her off? Years ago? It was hard to tell. “Amanda… What fucking day?”

 

She peered up at her husband, eyes bloodshot from tears; face stained from her running eyeliner. The words that she spoke next felt worse than any stab wound, any gun shot, any betrayal imagined and God, it immediately shook every fucking nerve in his body—

 

“ _The day I found out you were fucking Trevor Philips._ ”


End file.
